A prickle over her skin, the rush of air her only warning. She snatched the book above her head just as a splash of water spilled over her lap. Harmless enough to her cotton underthings and armored leather, it would have spelled destruction for the book. As it was, raindrop kisses laved their spatter marks across the pages.

Larissa cringed.

“Careful there, bookkeeper.”

She ignored the taunt and brushed aside the water droplets.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering,” the voice continued. “The time for ink scribbling is over. You may be first in all other classes, but you will always be last in the one that counts.”

Larissa’s cheeks warmed, her hands perspiring. She’d spent years not retaliating to the barbs, ignoring pettiness and rivalry, but on this last day, she couldn’t contain her scorn. Valare’s taunting would not

go unanswered, not if Larissa had a chance to bite back before they parted ways forever. She rose from her seat, book in hand. Better than a blade, because to her it was an equal weapon to the broadsword across Valare’s back. “I’ve never been able to tell, Valare, what it is you’re angrier about.”

A susurrus rippled through the long low room, a sudden pause, as though a stray dog had done an interesting trick.

“It speaks!”

Larissa flinched at Valare’s ridicule She tossed thin blonde braids over her back and glared in defiance at the other acolyte. Hands on her hips, Valare stood bedecked in her accustomed fighting garb, cream armor that marked her family lineage. Her mother was Atticus, defender of the realm, matriarch of shields.

Valare’s armor glinted near gold in the low flickering torchlight, extra polished for the momentous occasion of the Empirical.

Her tawny, sun-tanned skin gleamed, thick muscles evidence of her training. Hair black as a raven’s wing shorn short, her dark eyes narrowed on Larissa in condescending amusement. “Go on now, lamb-tongued one. Let’s see what you’ll bleat for me.”

Valare’s companions grinned at one another, enjoying the culmination of a years-long rivalry. All knew the cause. Larissa should be strong like Valare, like her mother, and she was…not.

The only similarities between she and her mother were the same caramel hue in their eyes, the same blonde hair. But Larissa lacked a knight’s stature, held softness at her waist and hips from hours spent

reading when she slipped away from training. It made her armor pinch, and she avoided it whenever possible.

In short, Larissa was soft, hesitant, girlish. She’d spent six years dodging either Valare’s viper tongue or not-so-subtle attacks. They were meant to be a match, one a shield, the other a sword, just like

their mothers. Only the flaws of Larissa’s character intervened.

Valare was as easy to violence as blood to a blade, but Larissa cowered every time. Conflict churned her stomach, sent tremors through her hands. Years of training gradually steadied them but could not take away Larissa’s revulsion. Much to Valare’s disgust and contempt.

Larissa’s face burned, but she squeezed the book, grounding herself in its worth. Valare would never understand the content within. Could never appreciate the delicate phrasing of dark magics.

Never taste knowledge from forgotten corridors of the world. Larissa did, and often, but kept it secret out of necessity. And while she wasn’t the warrior Valare was, she could fight with words.

“Is it because you’re afraid brawn won’t carry you to victory?” She tilted her head, glaring up at Valare. “Or is it because you’re so dreadful at everything else that without knighthood you hold no

purpose?”

“Oh, I see.” Valare stroked her chin in faux contemplation. “You want me to beat you to a pulp before the Empirical, so you have a chance to…what? Cry foul?”

There were hisses among the throng, Valare’s words an insult to any of the Fair Lady’s acolytes. Especially to Larissa. Who had taken every beating Valare had ever given her, and not once given in.

Larissa hefted the book in her hand, teeth grinding as she readied to say something she’d regret.